


3:47pm of a Tuesday afternoon

by FranklyFrazzled



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:39:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FranklyFrazzled/pseuds/FranklyFrazzled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was never the life he’d ever envisioned himself having but it normally took a casual gun in the room for him to begin rethinking past decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3:47pm of a Tuesday afternoon

He leaned against the windowsill, shoulders hunched over, back curved like a delicate bow, and arms stretched far apart to support himself against the marble ledge. The window was wide open, letting in an urban symphony of the city below as well as a cool breeze. It was the first cool breeze to be had in many humid and suffering weeks of scouring the world over. His open, startlingly white, button-up billowed behind him, puffing up like wings and revealing his bare, tanned back to Steven on the bed behind him. To the window, his entire chest was exposed, welcoming the cool air to overheated skin.

Some people like the country side. They like air that’s pure and untouched by the toxic inventions of man. They like silence. Not him. He likes the city and what it represents. He enjoys the varying car horns irritably sounding off at each other and the old restaurant on the street corner that plays soft music to mingle with the more industrious noises of day. (The restaurant which exists in every city, he had discovered, no matter where his work seemed to send him.)

He liked to think of the city as music. Real music, the kind where the original singer was not only unknown but was also unimportant because their songs were imprinted into the hearts of all their countrymen like tattoos of passion. The music made by guitars and scratchy voiced old men, the sounds of which bounce off concrete walls that know far more than they would ever dare to tell.

The man turned from the window; one hand still on the windowsill while the other removed the cigarette from his attractive mouth. An attractive mouth which was at peace, at rest, content to remain silent for the time being. His open shirt played victim to the breeze once more but he seemed not to care. There were still beads of sweat at the crook of his neck and collected on his bare chest. Beneath the open shirt he wore nothing but a dramatically black shoulder holster. As the breeze teasingly had its way with the thin material of his shirt, deciding to reveal more and less of his vulnerable torso at its own cruel discretion, Steven first caught sight of the gun.

Steven lay on the bed, above the scratchy green covers which made too much noise when he moved, and just watched the other man. It was a strange thing to wake up to: A beautiful stranger stalking your window. With the life he lived, he had always known it was only a matter of time before something like this would happen. He watched the smoke slowly exit that contented mouth and fade away into the already polluted air, wondering if the man before him was going to be the one to finally kill him.

_What a way to go, part of him thought_ , the part he‘d be too ashamed to admit existed out loud. _To die here, with this being me last sight. It’s too fookin’ beautiful, more than I deserve._ But the other man, while he had a gun strapped to his chest (just to the side of his ribs where Steven knew he would love to place a lingering, open mouthed kiss) never reached for it. Being so used to the cold metallic feeling against his feverish skin, the man simply pretended it was not a constant threat lingering over them both.

He kept taking long, tantalizing drags of his cigarette and merely leaned there, like some kind of mobster Adonis, daring Steven to test which side wanted to come out and play: the killer or the lover. Steven desperately wanted to know, not caring in the end, which one it actually turned out to be.

_To die by your hand, I would submit myself to die a thousand deaths._ Steven doesn’t know when he became so fucking sentimental and romantic but with the life he led, other human beings were a rare luxury. Especially ones that were this perfect. His heart ached for just one last chance to connect with one other person before his untimely death.

“What do you think of the city?” the man asked, breaking the silence between them with accented English that sounded like Spain mixed with a touch of home. Home. He would have never thought the day would come when the very idea of Liverpool would send shivers down his spine. Mostly this is because he had never thought he would be one of the ones to leave. It had been a long time now even though he just now seemed to notice the years that stood between him now (about to die in some unknown city by a stranger’s hand) and him then (the local boy with the path of his father set before him like an unmovable stone). This was never the life he’d ever envisioned himself having but it normally took a casual gun in the room for him to begin rethinking past decisions.

The man shifted before him, drawing Steven out of his reverie and focusing his attention on that taut stomach and the delicate path of hair which led into his expensive looking trousers. “I like the view,” he responded thickly, making the man smile.

“You’ve been a very difficult man to find.”

“Have I?”

The man nodded, abandoning his cigarette in an already well used ash tray that made Steven wonder just how long he had been asleep. Most men would have just killed him while he slept instead of casually hanging around his unconditioned, one star hotel room in the middle of an unbearable summer heat wave. “Many different countries, different cities. Still always very similar, your places. I think we have in common, a love for places like these.” The idea of this man chasing his ghost across the world was slightly arousing. Steven had always found death to be arousing, that had always been his problem. He wondered if the man would take pity on him and allow him to fuck him as a last request.

Then, oh yes, then he would be able to move on from this world feeling like he had lived a full life. He could easily see that beautiful body, so achingly wonderful beneath his own, responding to the filthy things that were running through his head in such a stunning manner. Then once it was all over and they were still panting, flushed, and covered in cooling sweat and come, if the man wished to pull the trigger, so be it. He was certain it would be worth it.

Before he had a chance to make his request known, the man was sitting on the bed next to him, provocatively close but still so far away. There was a darkness in his eyes that seemed to say, “I’ve obsessed over you. Spent hours upon hours searching drug dens and turn of the century architecture for you. Every night I sleep in your bed, sometimes still warm from your latest departure. Somewhere between the impersonal files that had every personal detail about you and studying your habits always a few hours too late, I feel in love with you.” It was breathtaking, looking into those eyes that could say so much.

“What’s your name?” Steven found himself asking, gently fluttering his fingers over the man’s cheek bones jut to see how he was the one shivering now.

“Xabier.”

Steven nodded. It was enough. He closed the distance between them with a kiss, their story already fading into the well-worn walls that surrounded them.

Things like this, they exist in few other places but the city itself.


End file.
